


Neutron Star Collision (Love Is Forever)

by timey_wimey_wayward_lock



Series: When You Wish Upon A Star [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Dialogue, Friendship, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock - Freeform, ShootBadCabbies, Star!John, Starjohn, mentions of john's family, soulmate fic, this slightly follows the canon meeting between john and sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:48:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1291966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timey_wimey_wayward_lock/pseuds/timey_wimey_wayward_lock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all of time, space, and his adventures on Earth, he’d hoped to see this man again. He’d lie awake at night hoping, weeping, and screaming over the fact that he was unable to see his Wisher again. He had often woken up from his night terrors with the image of his Wisher dying in front of him, bloodied and high.</p><p>This time, though, there were no abandoned buildings. There were no needles, no drugs, and no gunshot wounds. There were no problems, or things that needed to be resolved. It was time, in both of their lives, to join without interruption.</p><p>John had found his Wisher, after all of this time. He could be the star that he had always promised to be. A lover, a companion, a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neutron Star Collision (Love Is Forever)

**Author's Note:**

> The third installment of the 'When You Wish Upon A Star" series is now finished. Took me a while, with plenty of breaks to check Tumblr, of course.
> 
> I'm a little frustrated with how the present-tense and past-tense wording turned out, if you get what I mean, but in the end I'm hoping you guys can get past that and enjoy the work.
> 
> So, anyhow, the title is based on the song Neutron Star Collision (Love Is Forever) by Muse.
> 
> And I would also like to give an absolute huge thank you to Ariane DeVere, who has put up transcripts for use. Without this, I can honestly say that I would definitely be in shambles, and this would not have turned out. Her 'A Study In Pink' transcript is here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this part to the series! If you have any concerns, questions, criticism, or compliments, feel free to leave them as a comment. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading my fan fictions, and thank you so much to shootbadcabbies for creating this AU.
> 
> -timey_wimey_wayward_lock

The air was brisk with a chilly wind, and John shivered beneath his light jacket. _Should have worn something more suitable_ , he thought to himself, as he continued to walk. People passed by; lovers, friends, and just the few who walk on their own. Some jog to keep in shape, and some sit around on the slightly damp grass, blankets under them, enjoying the rather rare nice weather London was granted. It was domestic bliss, normal, and so very _pure._ John had missed this, all of it. Despite the thrill he’d had in his life, the short one it was, he had missed the streets of London. He missed seeing it’s action and visiting its shops. He missed being here, where everything reminded him of his first time on Earth. The time he had saved his Wisher, whom he was still trying to find.

John limps with his cane, staying off to the side as not to slow any others down or to get in the way. He leans heavily on his cane, its support greatly appreciated. His shoulder slightly burns every once and awhile, but his leg is the worst.

It’s been years since John has been his true self. He hasn’t glowed in a very long time, and his golden hair is now tipped with grey. He doesn’t exude the same cheery and stunning air he used to. With these years of wear, and the years without Sherlock, he’s had to change to keep his identity a secret. Someday, though, someday he’ll be himself again.

\--

The star walked past a park bench, eyes straight ahead, and he didn’t even recognize or notice the man sitting there. Aside from the many people he had observed moments earlier, he had stopped paying attention. Now, he was just enjoying the blue sky, and the fact that he was back home, in London again. Though alone, it was better than nothing at all. And so, because he was not paying attention, he didn’t notice the man at the bench. He wouldn’t have, as well, if it weren’t for that man calling out his name.

“John! John Watson!” A male voice rang out in John’s ears, taking a few moments to register. The voice sounded familiar, though it was not someone he knew entirely well. So, John slowed to a stop, turning to look – curious of who might know him. It had been years since he had seen any of his Uni mates, and none of the soldiers he’d come in contact with had lived in London, so he was unsure of whom it could be.

There was a man hurrying towards him as he looked to the voice. Short, rounded, brown hair with a retreating hairline. He was wearing glasses, and there was a smile on his lips. John didn’t recognize him, so he just waited, taking a moment to switch hands on his cane.

The man arrived in front of him, slightly out of breath and a small smile on his lips. John couldn’t remember where he had seen his face, but something told him that they had met before. The blond had observed so many humans in his lifetime, that sometimes he found it difficult to remember them all. Both good and bad people, no matter, the world was full of so many humans. The good were beautiful to him. Every face he saw was beautiful, for they were a human, and they were privileged with a brilliant life.

“Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together,” the man says, and instantly John remembers. The memory of a few years previous enters his mind. Sewing stitches and learning of the human body, Mike had been one of John’s partners. They had had plenty of encounters, and Mike was a good man. Slightly dazed at times, but a good person.

“Yes, sorry, yes, Mike,” John shook his hand, offering a quick, “Hello, hi.” Though, no matter if there was still a smile on his face, John didn’t exactly feel happy to see someone he had previously known. He was polite, of course, but nothing could fill the emptiness inside of him.

Without his Wisher, John would never truly feel at home. But how was anyone supposed to know this, if he didn’t speak of it? It wasn’t Mike’s fault that he felt this way, and John knew he couldn’t burden the man with his problems.

Mike grinned a bit wider, completely unaware of John’s inner dialogue, and gestured to himself. “Yeah, I know, I got fat!”

Though John could see that Mike was definitely larger, he didn’t say it. And he didn’t mention the evils that simmered in his heart. “No.”

With a wider smile, Mike changed the subject politely. “I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?”

With an awkward shrug, the blond man answered simple and short, “I got shot.” His shoulder burned at the mention, and he rolled it slightly. The sounds of cars and traffic in the distance became louder in his ears, and he fought the wince that itched its way up his body.

And that was where it had begun. John took a walk with Mike, grabbing coffee and then they made their way back to the bench. He had to admit, speaking with an old friend was nice, but he didn’t care for being social. Watching and waiting was what he liked to do best; it helped remind him of the normality in the city. Often he stayed locked up in his small apartment, debating whether he should eat in the morning and night, and waking up from extremely terrible night terrors after he’d went to sleep.

It was his life, and it never changed. No matter how many times his therapist said it would.

\--

Mike explained that he worked at Barts, how it reminded him of his days. There were so many bright new students that passed through the doors, he couldn’t keep track of them all. Still, it was his passion to teach the bright young minds. It made John wonder whether he would have been a good teacher. Instead of enlisting, rather, should he have stayed close to home and waited for his Wisher?

What had been done couldn’t be undone, and he knew that. There was no way he could go back in time.

John was so caught up in his thoughts, that Mike’s words startled him. “What about you? Just staying in town ’til you get yourself sorted?”  

“I can’t afford London on an Army pension,” John replied, his tone rather dissatisfied. The current place he’d rented was simple, small, and enough to support him. In the long run, without a job, the flat would become too much. It was bad enough trying to gather up enough money to pay for groceries that week, let alone enough for rent.

“Ah, and you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.” Mike was right. John really couldn’t imagine moving anywhere outside of the city. Despite everything he had learned about the world and the places he’d been, London would always be his home. It was where he had fallen, and it was where he still held hope of love. Each street and each alleyway held promise and hope for the star, that someday he would find the person he was looking for.

With an uncomfortable shift in position, John gave a slight nod of his head. “Yeah, I’m not the John Watson…” Though, he paused, unable to finish the sentence. He really wasn’t the same John Watson anymore. He was no longer carefree, and no longer happy. He was no longer in love, and he was no longer in touch with the man he had promised to save. Switching his cup into his right hand, John then looked down to his left and clenched it into a fist. A shaking had started in his grip, and an aching in his shoulder.

Mike looked away, awkwardly, for a few moments. He was not one to stay silent for long, though, and so after a few moments he looked back up, speaking. Reminding John of the life story and the past he had once had to tell. “Couldn’t Harry help, to you know, get you back on your feet?

“Yeah, like that’s going to happen!” The blond said sarcastically. His family was somewhere in the universe, either still in the sky, or somewhere else on Earth. He’d lost contact with them the moment he had fallen. To the human’s knowledge, though, John had a human family. His mother and father had passed away when he was a young adult, and his sister had become a drunk.

With a shrug, Mike continued, unsure of what to suggest. “I dunno. Get a flatshare or something?”

“Come on, who’d want me for a flatmate?” John countered. He’s an ex-army doctor with a limp and PTSD. He’s conservative, with a bit of a temper. He’s a star, in the human form, who can glow. His hair contains gold dust, and sometimes when he walks, he leaves a trail. Of course, his star qualities haven’t appeared in years, without his incentive to let them. Still, it was a risk.

A chuckle interrupts John’s thoughts.

“What?” he asked, eyebrows furrowing. Mike’s lips pulled back to reveal his teeth, and he continued to smile as he continued to chuckle.

“Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today,” Mike answered, chuckling again.

Eyebrows still furrowed, John took the last sip of his coffee and then tossed in the trash bin. “Who was the first?”

\-------

They ended up back at Barts. The building was still the same as when John had gone to school, but the air was different. He felt old in a place that was new. So much had happened in his absence, that he could no longer call it his school. It was much the same with his life. He felt too old, or rather, too new to fit in anywhere. He had experienced it all, but he wasn’t native to this planet. He was merely a star, still trying to find its way home. In the entire universe; all of its corners and crevices that held the unfathomable, there was John’s home. Even if it took him another million years to find, the blond kept searching. He always would, no matter how close to giving up he was becoming.

His eyes glanced around when they stepped into one of the labs. Instead of the old equipment John had expected, there were new tools and more refined electronics. Test tubes and graduated cylinders were array on the counters, not to mention the papers scattered places. The room was free of any bustling from students. Instead, there was a man seated at the far corner of the room, deeply concentrated on something he was working on. John paid no mind to him, figuring he wanted privacy. Mike was merely here to give him a quick tour, and then John could return to his daily routine, to his uneventful life he had grown accustomed to. “Bit different from my day,” he commented, glancing over at Mike.

The short man was smiling, and giving a whole-hearted chuckle. His eyes were not directed at John, though, but instead his gaze was trained on the man sitting in the far corner of the room. “You’ve no idea!”

John wondered why Mike was so focused on the man. By his stance that the blond had just previously witnessed him in, he didn’t seem to be inviting to others coming into the space.

A voice sounded in the silence. It was deep, like liquid velvet. It was the type of voice that you’d hear narrating a film about nature, with its soothing tones and dramatic cues. But, it was also the type of voice that you craved to hear whispered in yours ears on those lonely nights, alone. It coursed through John’s mind and body like the thick, hot blood coursing through his veins, and the star was transfixed. He’d never heard a voice like it before, and perhaps that was why he found it so intriguing. Despite how its sentence was a simple one, it sounded more complex in such a rich speech, “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Mike asked, but it was barely heard by the blond man still standing near the doorway. His eyes drifted away from his old friend to the man sitting in the corner, and his world suddenly became frozen.

He can no longer see the lab, Mike, or the movement of a young woman stepping out of the room. All he can see, in his tunneled vision, is the man sitting at the lab bench. He’s surely the one who had spoken just moments earlier, with the voice that had completely captivated John. His appearance has also captivated the star. John felt as if he were falling again, falling through the never ending blackness, afraid he’d never find a way out. Though he has not moved from his spot in the lab, John’s attention is elsewhere. He can’t focus, he can hardly breathe. In his mind, he’s falling again. He doesn’t have a way out. The blackness swallows him up whole, tugging at his limbs and taking away his cane. It leaves him to fend on his own, screaming and thrashing and begging for it to stop. And when it does, when he wakes again, the man sitting in the corner of the room is who he sees.

The blond man has missed most of their small banter, but he believes it to be somewhere along the lines of, “And what’s wrong with the landline?”, “I prefer to text.”, “Sorry, it’s in my coat.”.  It’s close enough, really. Close enough for John to make the assumption that this man is in need of a phone, and the star is obliged to help. So, he ducks a hand into his back pocket and pulls out his new, but tattered mobile. “Er, here,” he begins, his voice shaky and his mind elsewhere. John can hardly focus, or contain the simmering that has started to bubble inside of him. He fights the shudder that wants to slide down his body when the man looks to him. “Use mine.”

He’s tall, but just as tall as John expected him to be. His body is thin, lanky, and suited with rather expensive attire. He’s wearing a suit, definitely good quality. There is a belstaff and a blue scarf tucked over a chair besides him, most likely his. His face has a strange order about it, with his slightly off-shaped proportions, but it doesn’t discern the fact that he is undeniably handsome. His skin is pale, with just a slight tipping of crimson beneath his extremely high cheekbones. They are sharp, almost sharp enough to hypothetically cut someone. His jaw is angular, and his cupid-bow lips become slightly damp when his tongue darts out to wet them. Seated above a rather perfectly shaped nose and below a set of slightly bushy eyebrows, is a pair of eyes. They are a pale blue, but once light has shone on them from a different angle, they become verdigris. The orbs are piercing, patient, observant. Almost as if he inspects everyone like prey. But, accompanying that intimidation, the eyes are a window to one’s soul. And John can see his soul almost perfectly. Above it all, seated upon his head, are a cacophony of dark curls. They are seemingly messy, naturally, but they frame his features quite brilliantly.

John continued to watch, unaware that he was staring rather profusely and obviously, as the taller man stood from his spot to accept the phone from John’s hand. “It’s an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike explains in the background, introducing John to the other man. Neither of them really needs such an introduction, of course, but Mike doesn’t know that. Their fingers accidentally brush when the other man pulls away with the phone, and John could swear that he would endlessly tingle in that particular spot.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked, glancing one more time at John, before looking to the phone to type out a message. The question surprised John, and he looked to Mike, confused.

He shouldn’t be surprised. The question was merely confirmation. There are many, if not millions, of John Watson’s in the universe. The last time the man has seen a John Watson, he was strung out and facing death straight in the face. “Sorry?”

“Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?” His deep voice persists again, not looking up from the phone.

John is still stunned by the situation, and he unsure of what to say. Other than responding to the question, he wonders what he could say. Should he apologize? Should he beg for forgiveness? Should he run to the brunet and encase him in his arms? No. Mike was still in the room, and for their secret to stay safe, they must refrain.

Does the man even remember who he is?

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know…?” John questioned, still unsure. Doubts were almost futile in his mind, but he couldn’t push away the almost slight chance that this was not the man he thought it was. It could be some stranger, one the star had never met before. It could be a stranger that looked like _him_ , spoke like _him_ , and seemed to be like _him_. John hadn’t even caught his name yet, though he hoped it was what he thought it was. He hoped more than anything. His pulse was racing, heart pounding, emotions a whirl. _Please let it be him. Please let me have found my home._

His question is not answered, though, when a young woman steps into the room with a cup of coffee. She’s petite, young, and gentle in her movements. She’s intimidated, and wooed by the same man John is. She meets him halfway and hands him the mug, while his fingers reach out to hand John the phone back.

The brunet speaks with the young woman, but John does not pay attention. He can’t find himself able to.

It’s only when she is leaving, and the deep-voiced man speaks again, that his attention is caught. “How do you feel about the violin?”

Looking around, he noticed the woman step out of the room, her coat swishing behind her. John then glanced to Mike, who was merely smiling smugly. _So, the man was speaking to him_. “I’m sorry, what?”

The man John knows plays the violin. He has since he was a young child.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end,” his fingers tapped repeatedly on the keyboard in front of him, and his eyes stare at the laptop screen. It is only when he finished his sentence that he looked up to John. His eyes are still observant, but they hold a speck of recognition. “Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

“Oh, you told him about me?” John looked to Mike for an explanation, _something_ , and he is extremely grateful when he does not receive one. The chances of this being the right person were increasing. “Then who said anything about flatmates?”

Lifting his greatcoat, he slid his arms in and then reached for his scarf. “ _I_ did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old _friend,_ clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”

The way he emphasizes the word _friend_ has John’s hopes up more and more. Each minute the star stares, the more he recognizes the human in front of him, and the more he wants to pull him into his arms. Soon he will, very soon, or so he hopes.

“How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?”

The brunet ignored his questioned yet again, and went to tie up his scarf. He plopped his phone into an inside pocket on his expensive coat, and then he headed in search of the door.

John’s heart leapt in agony. He couldn’t let this be over. It had been years, months, hundreds of days and millions of minutes since he had been able to talk or see this man. He couldn’t give it up just yet, not when there was that almost exact chance it was _him_. “Is that it?”

Thankfully the man turns around, sauntering up close to the blond, almost breathing down his neck. John fought a shudder, and also fought looking down at those deliciously plump lips he has been waiting to kiss. He merely licked his own lips, instead, and spoke in a hushed voice, “We’ve only just met and we’re going to go look at a flat?”

“Problem?”

“We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.” Lies, but ones John has to tell.

“I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.” There is a subtle smirk on his face, and he leans down just a bit closer to John’s ear. His hot breath falls along the John’s skin, making it alight with the feeling of fire and tingling. It awakens something inside of the star, and he feels the urge to glow as bright as he can. Mike is still around, though, and so he contains himself. “That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think, _John Watson_?”

It’s him.

Of course it’s him.

John knew it was him, the moment he’d heard his voice.

His doubts were fruitless, because this was the man he had been looking for.

In all of time, space, and his adventures on Earth, he’d hoped to see this man again. He’d lie awake at night hoping, weeping, and screaming over the fact that he was unable to see his Wisher again. He had often woken up from his night terrors with the image of his Wisher dying in front of him, bloodied and high.

This time, though, there were no abandoned buildings. There were no needles, no drugs, and no gunshot wounds. There were no problems, or things that needed to be resolved. It was time, in both of their lives, to join without interruption.

John had found his Wisher, after all of this time. He could be the star that he had always promised to be. A lover, a companion, a friend.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street,” he says, the smirk still on his lips.

Sherlock steps past John, his fingers just barely clasping the stars’. They carefully squeeze, an affectionate gesture, before letting go. In turn, they leave a reassurance with John; that he is welcome, and he is appreciated. It’s all the star needs, before he’s ready to follow the man out, limp almost forgotten.

 _It’s almost like a neutron star collision_ , John thinks.

Then again, love _is_ forever.


End file.
